Green Hell (11 page)

Friends Reunite Ireland

I found Em's mother. She was living in a cottage in Kinvara. She was a “home-keeper,” whatever the fuck that is. She was now using her maiden name, Marion McKee. Google Maps even showed me the cottage. The old adage:

“You want to know what the daughter will

become, meet the mother.”

Worth a shot.

I went to Charley Byrne's Bookshop and wished Vinny a happy new year. He smiled ruefully at that. Then,

“So, what do you want, Jack?”

I did mock-offended.

“You think that's the only reason I'm here?”

“Pretty much.”

I took a breath, asked,

“Could I borrow the van for a few hours?”

“You going into the book business, Jack?”

“Well, research of a sort.”

He rooted around, then handed me the keys, said,

“Second gear needs a bit of cajoling.”

Smiled at that, said,

“I will of course pay for the petrol.”

“Yeah, like that will happen.”

Em had only ever once referred to her mother, a throwaway quip:

“Good old Moms is a rummy.”

The last time I read that description was in the early works of Hemingway. This in mind, I made a pit stop at an off-license, bought a bottle of brandy. The owner, handing me the bottle, asked,

“You want to buy a bundle of books?”

“Excuse me?”

He nodded at the van, which had a sign on the side:

CHARLEY BYRNE'S

NEW AND SECONDHAND BOOKS

I said,

“Not really.”

He seemed surprised, pushed,

“Some James Pattersons in the bunch.”

Jesus, how could I resist?

I found Marion McKee's cottage easily. Just look for the closed curtains. Alkies don't do light. I had a briefcase and my Garda coat, and looked like someone collecting the Household Tax. That is, like an asshole.

Took some banging on the door until she finally answered. A small woman in what used to be termed a housecoat,

or

camouflage.

Badly permed blond hair was sorely in need of help. Her eyes were tired, a little bloodshot, and her face, despite makeup, showed the savagery of alcohol. A stale reek of alcohol, nicotine, and fear emanated from her pores. I said,

“I need a few minutes of your time, about your daughter.”

Saw the alarm, rushed,

“Nothing bad . . . quite good in fact. If I may?”

Indicating,

Let me in?

She did, reluctantly. The living room was small but obsessively tidy. Your life's going to shit, you try to hold something in place. She pointed to a chair that was forlorn in its loneliness. She sat on the couch, asked,

“May I offer you something, Mr. . . . ?”

“Jack. No, I'm fine.”

I put the briefcase on the table, pulled out a stack of papers, the bottle of brandy seemed to slip out. I smiled, said,

“Whoops, Christmas leftover.”

And placed it on the table. Then, as if struck by a thought, said,

“How about we baptize this bad boy, to mark the good news about Em . . . or do you prefer Emerald?”

Her eyes locked on the bottle.

A beacon.

She fetched two glasses, heavy Galway crystal tumblers. I poured a passable amount into both, said,

“Here's to your daughter.”

A fleeting dance across her eyes, fear chasing anxiety. She drained the brandy like a brawler. I stood up, glanced at her bookshelf, asked,

“May I . . . peruse? A compulsion of the trade.”

Giving her the window. And, like a pro, fast, she replenished her glass and, I loved it, took a swig of mine. Oh, she was mighty, almost noble in her ruin. The books were like a legion of female artillery:

Germaine Greer

Naomi Wolf

Betty Friedan

And like a lost black sheep among the strident women, that out-of-favor, poor quasi-hippie, Richard Brautigan's

A Confederate General from Big Sur

and peeking optimistically from a corner, Elizabeth Smart's

By Grand Central Station I Sat Down and Wept

Indeed.

I said,

“We are expanding the shop and wish to appoint Em as manager.”

Marion tried to rouse some enthusiasm but blurted,

“She had been such a promising child.”

I spied a pack of cigarettes, lit one, and, as I handed it to her, topped up her glass. She was rolling on a short recovery high, continued,

“But her father . . .”

deep brandied sigh,

“He claimed Emmy's dog had bitten him and she found . . .”

mega gulp of brandy,

“The dog nailed to the shed door. He claimed some passing lunatic did it.”

I was smart enough to stay quiet. I knew the stages of rapid morning drinking, and brandy? Well, fuck, it adds an extra dimension of apparent energy to a false alertness. She didn't as much smoke the cigarette as absorb it, her cheeks sucked to the bone as if the nicotine would grant absolution. Cresting now, reaching the anger stage,

“And the affairs, parading floozies in front of us, the renowned literary professor.”

She looked at me as if I'd just appeared, dismissed me, said,

“I had money, you know, oh, yes but he . . . had something better, a shyster lawyer.”

I looked at the bottle. Christ, how much had she drunk?

She hit a brief cloud of severe clarity, said,

“When she was seventeen, she went to him, after years of no contact. You know what he did? He hit on her! Isn't that the term nowadays and, when he realized who she was, he laughed and said, ‘Roll your own.'”

I got out of there. Had put a blanket over her as she lay on the couch, called an ambulance. Driving away, I felt as low and dirty as any of the scumbags I'd ever laid a hurly on.

When I returned the van to Vinny, I said,

“I might be able to get you a deal on a batch of James Pattersons.”

Got the look.

He said,

“Perfect! I'll add them to the five hundred copies of John Grisham adorning most of the Crime Section.”

I was about to go, said,

“Hey, I believe you were on TV . . . that series,
Cities
?”

A rueful smile, then,

“It's all showbiz, Jack.”

As he refused petrol money, I bought a shitload of books.

Jason Starr

Gerald Brenan

Eoin Colfer

Adrian McKinty

James Straley

Stanley Trybulski.

Asked,

“Any chance, Vinny, you can deliver them?”

He tipped his Facebook hat, said,

“Why we have the van.”

Outside, I ran into Father Malachy, shrouded in cigarette smoke. I said,

“According to the papers, half the country's smokers have changed to e-cigarettes—vapors, as they're known.”

He glanced at me, said,

“I'd rather be electrocuted.”

“Be careful what you wish for, Father.”

Dinner with Em.

She'd booked a table at Cooke's. The family who not only run a superior bookshop but probably the best restaurant in the city and bonus . . .

Pure Galway.

Billy Idol—

“White Wedding”

Yeah!

I had a Jameson. For the record, here's what Em ordered . . .

She opened with,

“Will you marry me?”

Never knowing when/if ever she was

(a) Herself/selves?

(b) Taking the piss.

I said,

“You're not pretty enough.”

And fuck . . . her face fell, before I could say, “Hey . . . kidding.”

She ordered a large vodka tonic and I began my Jameson march. After we got some of that knocked down, we both pulled back a way, physically and emotionally. She asked,

“Tell me what you're thinking.”

I know, I know, you'll run with,

“You . . . dear.”

The Jameson said,

“How it would be nice if just one person would fess up to
12 Years a Slave
as eleven years too long.”

She frowned, said,

“It's a masterpiece.”

I sighed, tried,

“If I want torture porn, there's the
Saw
franchise.

Her starter arrived, she asked,

“Wanna share?”

“Like . . . our lives?”

By the time she reached dessert, she asked,

“Did you ever, like once, feel real love?”

“I feel it right now.”

Had to rush,

“for that little waif, Ziggy.”

Then the image of Em's puppy nailed to the shed door arose and I said,

“You should go visit your mother.”

A mischievous dance in her eyes, she asked,

“And you, Jack, . . . care much for yours?”

Truth.

“She was a walking bitch, awash with piety, cunning in her constant cruelty . . . if there's a hell, I pray she roasts in it.”

Em did a mock wipe of her brow, said,

“Phew, don't feel you have to hold back.”

She reached across the table, touched my hand. I didn't recoil or flinch so some progress. She said,

“Jack, I am truly sorry for your young friend Boru. I really believed we could have saved him.”

I had no answer.

Her hand still resting on mine, she held my gaze firmly, asked,

“I need a solemn pledge from you, Jack.”

Fuck, it wouldn't be good. I tried deflection.

“Didn't we do the marriage gig at the start of the meal?”

Slapped my hand, stressed,

“Be serious, Jack.”

“I'll give it a shot, what is it?”

“Next Friday, you have a table booked for two at Brannigan's. Be on time and don't leave until eleven o'clock. Make yourself . . . felt.”

WTF?

“Sounds like I'm setting up an alibi.”

Her hand withdrew. She said,

“Once, just once, don't be a stubborn bollix. Just humor me.”

“What the hell, OK. Who am I dining with?”

Now got the pixie smile, made her look twelve, vulnerable, and, oh shit, I don't know . . . deeply exposed. She said,

“Part of an extended birthday buzz. You really need not to overthink this.”

I nearly smiled, clichéd,

“Go with the flow.”

She signaled for the check, snapped,

“Don't be a fuckhead. Just blew your shot at getting laid.”

Through Boru's actual solicitor, I obtained his parents' address, bought a Mass card, had it signed by a priest in the Augustinians who was a human being, said,

“I am sorry for your loss.”

More like him and the Church might have less to fear from lynch mobs. He was that rare to rarest man, one who by pure simplicity made you glad to be alive. Plus, it didn't cost an arm and a leg (limping or otherwise). I enclosed the following note:

Dear Mr. and Mrs. Kennedy,

No words can convey the loss you have endured. Forgive my enclosure of a Mass card but here, it's our sole feeble attempt to demonstrate our care.

Your son was a true gentleman, shining with intelligence, warmth, and utter charm. I was graced, honored, and humbled to be his friend. Know that, despite his brief time in our city, he became a true Galwegian. He will always live here in our hearts and we walk with deep respect the streets he grew to love.

He is a credit to you and a terrible loss to the very meaning of “life extraordinary.”

With deepest sorrow,

Jack Taylor

If you want to know about spirituality, look into the eyes of a dog. So said William James. Ziggy was growing apace, already quirks of personality asserting themselves. He liked to nap on my Garda coat. Some long-lost tenuous connection to protection. He had brown velvet eyes that seemed to weep with emotion.

Acquiring a dog may be the only

opportunity a human ever has to

choose a relative.

Cheeky little bugger too.

Already knew my favorite part of the couch for TV so he'd get there first. Like Glenn Close in
Fatal Attraction
, he seemed to have adopted the mantra

“I will not be ignored.”

Times, too, he seemed to withdraw, his tiny body curling in on itself, emitting a deep sigh and ignoring all treats.

I'd done that gig my ownself.

I was currently watching the boxed set of

Van Veeteren

Maria Wern.

The latter was like Saga Nordén from
The Bridge
, without the icy autism.

Maria was a shade too fuckin whitebread.

Nordic noir rules.

I told Ziggy. He seemed unimpressed. Had the makings of a canine critic.

I wondered who Em had set me up to meet at Brannigan's. I'd given my word, so show up I would. Crossed my mind it might be de Burgo. Now that would make an interesting evening. Friday rolled around with the winds finally easing. The latest scandal was the Irish Water Board. Millions paid to a bunch of carpetbaggers to plan the installation of water meters in every home. First we endured years of poisoned water, now they'd charge us by the drop. The minister in charge of this fiasco, Phil Hogan, told us with his smug expression . . .

“
You can't make an omelet without
. . .”

I mean, he actually fuckin said that!

Brannigan's was off Kirwan's Lane. Had a reputation for great steaks. Ziggy whimpered as I prepared to leave. I told him,

“You guard the apartment . . . you know, do dog stuff.”

He ignored me.

I walked down Shop Street, trying to adjust the tie I'd worn. Under my Garda coat I had my sports jacket and, from a distance, might even have passed for respectable. Just past Easons, a man stepped out of the lane. Young, in an expensive Burberry coat, so it wasn't until he spoke that I realized who he was. The gap where his previous magnificent teeth had been. The punk who'd been beating on Ziggy. He snarled,